The Gold Girl Part 19

"Land sakes! Thet gal acts like she's p'ssessed! She tellin' whut a nice time she had to yo' place las' evenin', an' then a-runnin' away like she's wild as a hawrk. Seems like she's a-gittin' mo' triflin'

every day----"

"Sence Monk Bethune's tuk to ha'ntin' this yere crick so reg'lar,"

interrupted Watts, who stood leaning against the door jamb.

"'T'aint nothin' agin Mr. Bethune, 'cause he's nice to Microby,"

retorted the woman; "I s'pose 'cordin' to yo' idee, he'd ort to cuss her an' kick her aroun'."

"Might be better in the long run, an' he did," opined the man, gloomily.

"Where's yo' manners at? Not sayin' 'howdy'?" reminded his wife.

"I be'n a-fixin' to," he apologized, "yo' lookin' mighty peart this mawnin'." A cry from the baby brought a torrent of recrimination upon the apathetic husband: "Watts! Watts! Looks like yo' ort to could look after Chattenoogy Tennessee, that Microby Dandeline run off an' left alone. Like's not she's et a nail thet yo' left a han'ful of on the floor thet day yo' aimed fer to fix me a shelft."

"She never et no nail," confided the man, as he returned a moment later carrying the infant. "She done fell out the do' an' them hens wus apeckin' her. She's scairt wuss'n hurt."

"Well," smiled Patty. "I must go. Tell Microby to come up to my cabin right soon. I'd like to have a talk with her."

"Might an' yo' pa's claim 'ud be som'ers up the no'th branch,"

suggested the woman. "He rid that-a-way sometimes, didn't he, Watts?"

"I'm not prospecting to-day. I'm going over to see the Samuelsons. Mr.

Samuelson is sick."

"Law, yes! I be'n a-aimin' fer to git to go, this long while. I heern it a spell back, an' Mr. Christie done tol' us over again. They do say he's bad off. But yo' cain't never tell, they's hopes of 'em gittin'

onto they feet agin right up 'til yo' hear the death rattle. Yo' tell Miz Samuelson I aim to git over soon's I kin. I'll bring along the baby an' a batch o' sourdough bread, an' fix to stay a hull week.

Watts'll hev to make out with Microby an' the rest. Yo' tell Miz Samuelson I say not to git down in the mouth. They all got to die anyhow. An' 'taint so bad, onct it's over an' done. But lots of 'em gits well, too. So they hain't no call to do no diggin' right up to the death rattle--an' even then they don't allus die. Ol' man Rink, over on Tom's Hope, back in Tennessee, he rattled twict, an' come to both times, an' then, couple days later, he up an' died on 'em 'thout nary rattle. So yo' cain't never tell--men's thet ornery, even the best of 'em."

Christie's prediction that Patty would like Mrs. Samuelson proved to be conservative in the extreme. From the moment the slight gray-haired little woman greeted her, the girl felt as though she were talking to an old friend. There was something pathetic in the old lady's cheerful optimism, something profoundly pathetic in the endeavor to transform her bit of wilderness into some semblance to the far-away home she had known in the long ago. And she had succeeded admirably. To cross the Samuelson threshold was to step from the atmosphere of the cow-country and the mountains into a region of comfort and quiet that contrasted sharply with the rough and ready air of the neighboring ranches. The house itself was not large, but it was built of lumber, not logs. The long living room was provided with tastefully curtained cas.e.m.e.nt windows, and rugs of excellent quality took the place of the inevitable carpet upon the floor. A baby grand piano projected into the room from its niche beside the huge log fireplace, and bookcases, guiltless of gla.s.s fronts, occupied convenient s.p.a.ces along the wall, their shelves supporting row upon row of good editions. It was in this room, looking as though she had stepped from an ivory miniature, that the mistress of the house greeted Patty.

"You are very welcome, my dear. Mr. Samuelson and I were deeply grieved to hear the sad news of your father. We used to enjoy his occasional brief visits."

"How is Mr. Samuelson?" asked Patty, as she pressed the little woman's thin, blue-veined hand.

"He seems better to-day."

The girl noted the hopeful tone of voice. "Is there anything I can do?" she asked.

"Not a thing, thank you. Mr. Samuelson sleeps a good part of the time, and Wong Yie is a wonderful nurse. But, come, you must have luncheon.

I know you will want to refresh yourself after your long ride. The bathroom is at the head of the stairs. I'll take a peep at my invalid and when you are ready we'll see what Wong Yie has for us."

Patty looked hungrily at the porcelain tub--"A real bathroom!" she breathed, "out here in the mountains--and books, and a piano!"

Mrs. Samuelson awaited her at the foot of the stair and led the way to the dining room. When she was seated at the round mahogany table she smiled across at the old lady in frank appreciation.

"It seems like stepping right into fairyland," she said. "Like the old stories when the heroes and heroines rubbed magic lamps, or stepped onto enchanted carpets and were immediately transported from their miserable hovels to castles of gold inhabited by beautiful princes and princesses."

The old lady's eyes beamed: "I'm glad you like it!"

"Like it! That doesn't express it at all. Why, if you'd lived in an abandoned sheep camp for months and prepared your own meals on a broken stove, and eaten them all alone on a b.u.mpy table covered with a piece of oilcloth, and taken your bath in an icy cold creek and then only on the darkest nights for fear someone were watching, and read a few magazines over and over 'til you knew even the advertis.e.m.e.nts by heart--then suddenly found yourself seated in a room like this, with real china and silver, and comfortable chairs and a _luncheon cloth_--you'd think it was heaven."

Patty was aware that the old lady was smiling at her across the table.

"If I had lived like that for months, did you say? My dear girl, we lived for years in that little shack--you can see it from where you sit--it's the tool house, now. Mr. Samuelson built it with his own hands when there weren't a half-dozen white men in the hills, and until it was completed we lived in a tepee!"

"You've lived here a long time."

"Yes, a long, long time. I was the first white woman to come into this part of the hill country to live. This was the first ranch to be established in the hills, but we have a good many neighbors now--and such nice neighbors! One never really appreciates friends and neighbors until a time--like this. Then one begins to know. A long time ago, before I knew, I used to hate this place. Sometimes I used to think I would go crazy, with the loneliness--the vastness of it all. I used to go home and make long visits every year, and then--the children came, and it was different." The woman paused and her eyes strayed to the open window and rested upon the bold headland of a mighty mountain that showed far down the valley.

"And--you love it, now?" Patty asked, softly, as she poured French dressing over crisp lettuce leaves.

"Yes--I love it, now. After the children came it was all different. I never want to leave the valley, now. I never shall leave it. I am an old woman, and my world has narrowed down to my home, and my valley--my husband, and my friends and neighbors." She looked up guiltily, with a tiny little laugh. "Do you know, during those first years I must have been an awful fool. I used to loathe it all--loathe the country--the men, who ate in their shirt sleeves and blew into their saucers, and their women. It was the uprising that brought me to a realization of the true worth of these people--" The little woman's voice trailed off into silence, and Patty glanced up from her salad to see that the old eyes were once more upon the far blue headland, and the woman's thoughts were evidently very far away. She came back to the present with an apology: "Why bless you, child, forgive me! My old wits were back-trailing, as the cowboys would say. You have finished your salad, come, let's go out onto the porch, where we can get the afternoon breeze and be comfortable." She led the way through the living-room where she left the girl for a moment, to tiptoe upstairs for a peep at the sick man. "He's asleep," she reported, as they stepped out onto the porch and settled themselves in comfortable wicker rockers.

"What was the uprising?" asked Patty. "Was it the Indians? I'd love to hear about it."

"Yes, the Indians. That was before they were on reservations and they were scattered all through the hills."

A cowboy galloped to the porch, drew up sharply, and removed his hat.

"We rode through them horses that runs over on the east slope an'

they're all right--leastways all the markers is there, an' the bunches don't look like they'd be'n any cut out of 'em. But, about them white faces--Lodgepole's most dried up. Looks like we'd ort to throw 'em over onto Sage Crick."

The little woman looked thoughtful. "Let's see, there are about six hundred of the white faces, aren't there?"

"Yessum."

"And how long will the water last in Lodgepole?"

"Not more'n a week or ten days, if we don't git no rain."

"How long will it take to throw them onto Sage Creek?"

"Well, they hadn't ort to be crowded none this time o' year. The four of us had ort to do it in three or four days."

The old lady shook her head. "No, the cattle will have to wait. I want you boys to stay right around close 'til you hear from Vil Holland. Keep your best saddle horses up and at least one of you stay right here at the ranch all the time. The rest of you might ride fences, and you better take a look at those mares and colts in the big pasture."

The cowboy's eyes twinkled: "I savvy, all right. Guess I'll take the bunk-house shift myself this afternoon. Got a couple extry guns to clean up an' oil a little."

"Whatever you do, you boys be careful," admonished the woman. "And in case anything happens and Vil Holland isn't here, send one of the boys after him at once."

The other laughed: "Guess they ain't much danger, if anything happens he won't be a-ridin' right on the head of it." The cowboy gathered up his reins, dropped them again, and his gloved fingers fumbled with his leather hat band. The smile had left his face.

"Anything else, Bill?" asked Mrs. Samuelson, noting his evident reluctance to depart.

"Well, ma'am, how's the Big Boss gittin' on?"

"He's doing as well as could be expected, the doctor says."

The cowboy cleared his throat nervously: "You know, us boys thinks a heap of him, an' we'd like fer him to git a square deal."

"A square deal!" exclaimed the woman. "Why, what in the world do you mean?"